terrible indignation of an ancient prophet;--Wolcot, with his infinite fund of coarse wit and humour;--Burns, with that strange mixture of jaw and genius--the spirit of a _caird_ with that of a poet--which marked all his satirical pieces;--Crabbe, with his caustic vein and sternly-literal descriptions, behind which are seen, half-skulking from view, kindness, pity, and love;--Byron, with the clever Billingsgate of his earlier, and the more than Swiftian ferocity of his later satires;--and Moore, with the smartness, sparkle, tiny splendour, and minikin speed of his witty shafts. In comparison with even these masters of the art, the good Bishop does not dwindle; and he challenges precedence over most of them in the purpose, tact, and good sense which blend with the whole of his satiric poetry. SATIRE I. Time was, and that was term'd the time of gold, When world and time were young, that now are old, (When quiet Saturn sway'd the mace of lead, And pride was yet unborn, and yet unbred;) Time was, that whiles the autumn fall did last, Our hungry sires gaped for the falling mast Of the Dodonian oaks; Could no unhusked acorn leave the tree, But there was challenge made whose it might be; And if some nice and liquorous appetite Desired more dainty dish of rare delight, They scaled the stored crab with clasped knee, Till they had sated their delicious eye: Or search'd the hopeful thicks of hedgy rows, For briary berries, or haws, or sourer sloes: Or when they meant to fare the fin'st of all, They lick'd oak-leaves besprint with honey fall. As for the thrice three-angled beech nutshell, Or chestnut's armed husk, and hide kernel, No squire durst touch, the law would not afford, Kept for the court, and for the king's own board. Their royal plate was clay, or wood, or stone; The vulgar, save his hand, else he had none. Their only cellar was the neighbour brook: None did for better care, for better look. Was then no plaining of the brewer's 'scape, Nor greedy vintner mix'd the stained grape. The king's pavilion was the grassy green, Under safe shelter of the shady treen. Under each bank men laid their limbs along, Not wishing any ease, not fearing wrong: Clad with their own, as they were made of old, Not fearing shame, not feeling any cold. But when by Ceres' huswifery and pain, Men learn'd to bury the reviving grain, And father Janus taught the new-found vine Rise on the elm, with many a friendly twine: And base desire bade men to delven low, For needless metals, then 'gan mischief grow. Then farewell, fairest age, the world's best days, Thriving in all as it in age decays. Then crept in pride, and peevish covetise, And men grew greedy, discordous, and nice. Now man, that erst hail-fellow was with beast, Wox on to ween himself a god at least. Nor aery fowl can take so high a flight, Though she her daring wings in clouds have dight; Nor fish can dive so deep in yielding sea, Though Thetis' self should swear her safety;